


Superbat Reverse Bang Collection

by WolfVenom



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Comfort Food, Disguise, Drabble Collection, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Heart-to-Heart, Improvised Sex Toys, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Naked Cuddling, Parallel Universes, Shower Sex, Superbat Reverse Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-06 19:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12824712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: A collection of weekly prompts leading up to the Superbat Reverse Bang.





	1. Week 1: Passive-Aggressive Handjobs

**Author's Note:**

> Not to be confused with the ACTUAL Reverse Bang, being held early next year. These are tumblr week prompts to help keep us authors busy for the time being! Each chapter is a separate prompt from a week, but sometimes I do both of the prompts.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SRB Writing Challenge: Week 1  
> SFW theme: Disarming voluntarily.  
> //NSFW theme: A passive-aggressive handjob in the shower.//

 

“Oh fuck,  _ right there. _ ”

 

The manor was definitely too big for anyone to hear the stray grunts and groans of unadulterated pleasure stemming from the upstairs master bathroom. Clark couldn’t hear any robins bumbling about or a butler in any kitchen, comfortable in the knowledge that he and Bruce were  _ alone. _

 

His hand slackened under the hot spray of water, the steam making him just a little sleepy. Bruce growled low, encasing Clark’s hand with his own to keep up the steady up and down rhythm along his cock. 

 

“What, gonna chase a few zee’s with your hand on my dick?” 

 

Clark hissed and quickened the pace, grabbing hold of them both in one palm and pressing heat flushed skin against Bruce’s pale white. They made such a contrast, Clark loved the starkness of them both when played alongside one another. But  _ damn,  _ sometimes he was infuriating.

 

“I swear to god, Bruce, one more quip and I’ll--” he was cut off with a particularly hard pull from Bruce’s hand, sinking blunt teeth into the flesh of his partner’s shoulder as the resulting whine bounced across the tile.

 

“Damn, are you still pent up over the last time?” Clark moaned, running his thumb over the head and bringing his hand back down to the base, paying special attention to Bruce as he jerked him off.

 

“I’m not mad.” He was suppressing noises, clearly angry about the last unfortunate  _ sex-capade _ . Clark grimaced, irked with the non-responsiveness.

 

Another hand found it’s way to grab Bruce by the rear, lifting him up to brace against the tile. Bruce tried to force Clark’s other hand to work with fury, frustrated with the pace.

 

One pass of a blunt nail, gently down the length, had Bruce absolutely  _ violent, _ but outside of vocal response, he moved nor spoke none. His brows furrowed and had water not been pooling across his body, sweat would have taken place. 

 

Tired with the lack of engagement, Clark pulled them both off to completion, muffling his cry of release into Bruce’s throat, closing his eyes and feeling the thickness of semen wash down his belly with the water. That was probably the most forced orgasm he had ever experienced. 

 

They stood, Superman holding a spent Batman against the wall, until breath returned and both could wash up and exit the stuffy stall. 

 

Later, they lay exhausted, damp against the heavy bedsheets. Bruce with one arm thrown over Clark’s chest. 

 

“That could’ve gone better.”

 

Clark threw a pillow.


	2. Week 2: Alien Biology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SRB Writing Challenge: Week 2  
> //SFW theme: Alien biology.//  
> NSFW theme: “EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU FUCKING, YOU ARE IN A TENT.”

Bruce found immense peace of mind when the otherwise stressful days could bubble down to tender nights with Clark. Days when bruises and bites from weapons of all calibre could be soothed with the softest of warm hands and fingers skilled in chasing away any and all aches. Superman, for all his brawn and build, was surprisingly gentle. Flesh that could nary be pierced by steel could mold into his lovers form like malleable feathers, like finding gentleness in a crocodile’s maw.

 

A firm press against the sensitive muscles along his back had Bruce stifling a groan against his wrist, feeling the ghosts of pain flee from the heavenly massage. It seemed every day Bruce would find out something new about Clark that had him falling in love all over again, from insanely heated skin to a habit of pleasurable purrs that were neither cat nor human like.

 

A low rumble, “Had fun?”

 

Bruce chuckled, deep in his throat, and shifted under the magic hands gracing his body, “You know it,” a certain roll of knuckles along his spine prompted a hiss, the memory of broken bones resurfacing only briefly. Some scars still ached.

 

“Patched myself up. Jus’ want to sleep.” Bruce mumbled, wriggling as if to show that he was done with the comfort and needed Clark in his arms.

 

With a hefty sigh, Clark pulled Bruce’s tank top back down and slid onto the mattress with him, snatching the covers from where they were slipping off to fling them up at his hip.

 

The cocoon was messy, but Bruce turned onto his side and saddled up closer to his husband, twining their legs as best he could for that extra warmth on his toes. The boots on his suit needed mended insulation.

 

Clark’s heart beat steadily beneath his ribcage, a little bit faster than a human’s, but nonetheless relaxing. Bruce let strong hands hold him and fumble with bandages littering his limbs after the brutal fight earlier.

 

Dreams had just about came to say hello when Clark tensed harshly besides him, eliciting a groan and a grimace from the sleepy bat. A murmur of something a lot like “Whassa’matter” did not receive a response, and Bruce stiffened to sit up on his elbow. He made it not even a centimeter from Clark’s body before he was yanked back down, pressed tight against his partner in a loving yet borderline suffocating hug.

 

The weird purring had started up again, a phenomenon they had both discovered a few years back, and gooseflesh rose along his skin as Clark pressed his nose right along the column of Bruce’s throat. His lungs seemed to suck in every breath heartily, and Bruce shifted just a smidge to get a look at Clark.

 

“Somethin’ up?” He asked, groggily. Clark, snapped back to reality, pulled away just slightly, a nervous giggle on his tongue.

 

“I just had, the _weirdest_ urge to smell you.”

 

Bruce stared, eyebrow raised in question while Clark tried to awkwardly laugh it off. It wasn’t the first time he had done something odd powered by instinct. Maybe something triggered a response in his Kryptonian biology. Bruce wanted to find out.

 

“Here, do it again and tell me what it does to you.”

 

Mouth hanging open, Clark held back on the completely unprompted response and tentatively leaned forward to take in another lungful.

 

Deep in his body, a warmth seared every sinew and bone, a release of waves of dopamine prompting another close press of his body into Bruce’s. It felt like snuggling down into a bed made of newborn animals and stars. The world fuzzed until his brain recognized only the loving hold he had over his partner and the scent of that dumb high quality soap he used.

 

An urge to protect shot through his nervous system and his limbs latched onto Bruce, enveloping him in a bear hug that would break anyone else. His brain was too tired to realise the need when sleep was at the front, and he began to doze.

 

Bruce, slowly piecing together the behavioral mannerisms without a vocal answer, relaxed under the comforting embrace. It seemed physical contact and airborne hormonal cues started up a long suppressed familial need to care and be close. Like wolves and hyenas, grooming and scenting were vital in being a functional pack. Though, it was absurd to relate animals with Kryptonian biology like that, the few similarities behind their impulses were the only explanations.

 

Clark, seemingly already in deep sleep with his head cradled in a little divet in the pillow and Bruce nearly flat on top of him, gave a little hum of pleasure, cuddling ever more closer.

  
The faintest of smiles brushed Batman’s lips as he reciprocated the embrace and let sleep claim him too.


	3. Week 3: Parellel Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SRB Writing Challenge: Week 3  
> //SFW theme: A slightly shittier parallel universe.//  
> NSFW theme: Enthusiastically dry-humping their best friend.

The portal spits him out like a piece of trash from a chute, and Clark hits the ground and rolls at least a dozen times against the harsh concrete of Gotham’s streets before coming to a stop. He can’t even collect his spinning thoughts to try and fly back into the damned thing before it has disappeared, leaving nothing but the night sky in its pitiful wake. 

 

Eyes that see through all scans his surroundings, and Superman hovers just a smidge off the ground, ensuring no one can see him before he takes to the high sky to track down the only person he knows can return him to his own universe. 

 

\---

 

Wayne Manor differs naught in this universe compared to his own. Superman knows that this  _ is,  _ in fact, a parallel universe, because there was absolutely no sign of any superheroes. The thought itself is heart-wrenching, but at least that means the world is at peace, and his friends are out of danger. 

 

He makes a swing by a local shop, depositing some spare cash into the register and changing out of his suit for some semblance of citizen clothing. Wouldn’t do for Clark to enter into a place he may not be welcome in a bright blue onesie and a cape. 

 

The superspeed leaves him with only a five-second lapse between locating the manor and changing dress, so Clark makes his way up to the front gates, feeling rich gravel crackle underfoot as he approaches the bars. Motion sensors give him a quick and easy access, and the walk from the drive to the doors is about three minutes. Clark knocks firmly thrice and waits patiently for Alfred to answer. 

 

The stall is heavy, but Alfred answers politely, peeking out of the sliver he makes of the door before broadening his sights, once seeing the harmlessness of his visitor. 

 

“And, you are?”

 

The question is dull, but it still strikes Clark as  _ off,  _ having known Alfred so long in his own world. The shock does die, and he keeps cool.

 

“Clark. I’m Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet. I was hoping to squeeze in a few words with Mister Wayne, if that is possible at this hour?” Clark tries not to stutter and crosses his fingers behind his back. He doesn’t have his work bag here.

 

The butler does notice this. He eyes Clark suspiciously before attempting to close the door, “I’m sorry, it is much too late for Master Wayne to see to visitors, I can set an appointment for you at the earliest convenience, but--” 

 

“Alfred, let the poor guy in!”

 

Bruce Wayne, Gotham Gazillionaire, stands at the colossal staircase behind the entrance, glass of whiskey in hand and a red dusting to his cheeks. Obviously inebriated. Yet, something deep inside Clark is yearning. 

 

Unable to say no, yet clearly displeased, Alfred pulls open the door and gestures inside, taking Clark’s bulky trenchcoat and mumbling something about “refreshments” as Bruce descends the stairs and greets his visitor with open arms. 

 

He is crushed in a half hug and Clark wonders if Bruce knows who he is. It’s striking, but not uncommon amongst all the universes. Bruce pulls away with room to spare and downs the last of his drink, smiling giddily. 

 

There, on the hand holding the glass, Clark sees a ring. 

 

It’s not unlike his own; simple, a silver band that hugs his ring finger. But the sight of it instills nothing akin to hope. It’s too thin. It irks him. 

 

Realizing the silence is stretching, Clark fumbles to offer his hand, his left, by coincidence, and Bruce shakes it firmly. His hands,  _ God _ , they’re so much colder here. “Clark.”

 

“Bruce. Though, who am I kidding, you all know that by now,” he flashes a smile and a wink, gesturing for the stairs, “come on, I’ll entertain you for the time being.”

 

Clark’s heart falters every step into the mansion he makes. There is no sign of Batman, none of Dick, Jason, or even Tim. No Diana, either. He feels a slice of fear, seeing a photo of Damian, sitting happily in Bruce’s arms, but, Clark cannot spare grief on a universe that isn’t his own. Bruce isn’t  _ his  _ here, and he needs to pull through it.

 

It’s evident enough with the huge portrait atop the fireplace showing Bruce wedding a familiar woman - Damian’s mother, no doubt. Though, strangely, there is no sign of his wife and son anywhere in the house. 

 

Clark is motioned to sit in the loveseat opposite an expensive side table, wherein Bruce sits beside. On instinct, he reaches for his bag, and the dawning expression on his face lights up something inside the Wayne, barking in laughter.

 

“A reporter, forgetting his reports? Nice.” 

 

There is no quip, but Clark is saddened. 

 

He also finds his self-control flying out the window, unable to stand the facade he has pulled and the lover that is not his to touch before him. 

 

Seeming to notice his glass was emptied, Bruce glares at the bare mug and groans. Clark thinks not on his next move, just does what he finds natural, zipping with speed to the nearest cellar to grab a fresh bottle of cider, making it back to pour the glass in less than a heartbeat. 

 

To say the look on Bruce’s face is odd would be an understatement. The pause he takes is brief, but he winks at Clark and chugs as much as he can. The rim falls from his lips, which he moistens, and sets his drink down on the cozy. 

 

“Super speed. Nice. Now, why does an inhuman need my audience?”

 

Clark’s hands are clammy as he stumbles for a response, but the gravity of his situation outwits his emotions. 

 

“Look. I’m from a different universe. I’m a superhero and I somehow ended up here. I need you to help me get back, because I know you can.” 

 

Bruce wastes no time in polishing off his cider before standing and extending a hand. 

 

“I’m not going to pretend everything you just said wasn’t fucking crazy, but let’s see what I can do.”

  
  


\----

  
  


He took it much better than expected. Clark was offered a guest room on the ground floor, allowing Damian’s dog to sleep with him. His name was Titus, and he still happened to be a damn good foot warmer. The only comfort in this place where nothing was right. 

 

Bruce had Lucius try and develop a high-frequency sound wave modifier, and when that didn’t work, moved on to extremes Clark couldn’t even recall. He spent days telling Bruce of his powers, walking along the property, listening to Alfred, or alone in his room with Titus. It was hell, and he endured it for a week. 

 

On the tenth day, Clark let himself break. 

 

There was a vast emptiness in his arms where Bruce should’ve been, but instead was not. Talia nor Damian were home for the duration he stayed, but Bruce was completely enamored. Always spoke of his parents, still living happily, his son, his love life, all things  _ Clark  _ wanted. 

 

Titus let him vent, right into that coarse fur behind his ear. It was not unlike his own Titus, the dog Damian allowed to see Clark, if ever rarely. Clark just had that effect with animals. 

 

“I can’t bear another night here, boy. Too much stress on my shoulders and too little Bruce.”

 

The canine accepted his words and cuddled him to a tearful sleep, one washed away with the pillow in the morning. The empty space on the bed wasn’t filled, but Titus tried. It was the instinct of man’s best friend. 

  
  


\---

  
  


It was a month before Bruce came with word of success. Clark berated himself for the joy he found in the fact that he was leaving. It simmered to sadness, knowing that it was also wrong to view leaving Bruce - any version of him - and be happy about it. 

 

They shared little words, no hugs or handshakes, but Clark bid him a warm thank you and didn’t turn back as he flew headfirst into the opening portal. 

  
  


\---

 

He had had enough of nights spent cold and alone. But being back was probably more cold than the covers. 

 

A month it had been, so Clark wasn’t surprised to come tumbling back into his own world to find the manor absolutely  _ destroyed.  _ There was lines of red dragging painful paths across the wallpaper, broken glass and toppled chairs, snapped tables and ripped pillows. This was Bruce’s sitting room, that much was evident. A small, private and secluded place he could let go. 

 

The fingerprints were bloody, not with wine, and jagged bottles lay busted. 

 

_ Bruce… _

 

There were no signs of life in the manor, only the stray heartbeat of Ace as she slept away her old age by the fire. 

 

The batcave held one. A frantic and hurting pulse that ached the person who owned it. Super speed itself was too slow for Clark, despising the half-second it took him to enter the cave and fly down the staircase. 

 

Bruce, lacking cowl and cape and bleeding, hunched over the computer, shoulders wracked with something that was neither anger nor grief but some ruthless amalgamation of the two. Bruce, silver band on his finger with the faint engraving inside, eyes clenched against the screens displaying article upon article of Superman’s disappearance. 

 

Clark couldn’t find his voice at first. The relief, seeing his husband, one who loved him back like nothing else in the world mattered. The sorrow, seeing such a brave man broken by such a simple thing, one they both prepared for in this line of work

 

He had been in a fight recently, a knife fight judging by the lacerations, and Clark, unable to trust himself with words, hovered close, to where he could feel the heat of Bruce’s back, and let his hand smooth away the droplets peeking out of the crack in the shoulder pad. 

 

Normally, Batman would emerge, lashing out at the surprise and snapping into defense. But this man, filled with unimaginable stress, didn’t even flinch. 

 

“Here again, mocking my loss… I’m not one for ghosts.” 

 

He didn’t turn around, and Clark felt his heart die, just a smidge.  _ Hallucinations.  _

 

“Bruce.” 

 

A dozen heartbeats couldn’t sum the hesitation. Bruce tensed, reaching his hand up to close around the one caressing his neck, then slowly turned around to face the one who had haunted him for weeks. 

 

_ It wasn’t a boom tube. But the last thing Bruce saw, ever  _ truly  _ saw, was Clark tossed through a wall and vanishing into a flash of white. The battle couldn’t stop, Batman knew this, but his brain was running on an autopilot of adrenaline and muscle memory and all he could think of was Clark, Clark,  _ Clark--

 

“I’m here, Bruce.”

 

_ For a month he wasn’t. For a month he spent day and night searching for what had happened, shrieking to whatever science or gods there were to bring his love home, that he thought he was  _ dead---

 

“Not dead. Just away. Never again though.  _ Never. _ ”

 

_ Yet, he’s here.  _ Home.

 

The ridges on his gauntlets did not pierce his flesh as Bruce threw himself into Clark’s chest, arms wrapped in a deathly grip around his neck. There were no tears to be shed, for neither of them, both men already bled dry of their sorrows. Only joy and love from now on. Bruce’s hair smelled of cedar and citrus, strong where his hairline met his ear, and his lips tasted the skin there.

 

Discarding them both of heavy armor and suits, slipping into soft pajamas and plush covers, Clark flew them both to the bed in a second, sparing no time for mourning, and let them both be wrapped in the gentleness that was their raging love and freshly laundered duvet. 

 

“ _ I missed you.” _

 

“I love you.”


End file.
